


The Continuing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by Pilesshipper13



Series: The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes [3]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Female Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-01-29 20:41:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pilesshipper13/pseuds/Pilesshipper13
Summary: A collection of scenes that I couldn't find a reason to work into my other series. Enjoy.
Series: The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1442494
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

“Joan,” Gregson says, surprised to see the woman there. “I didn’t realize you and Holmes were stopping by.”

“She’s not here, just me.”

“Everything ok,” he asks. She seems upset.

“Could we talk privately,” she asks. Gregson nods. 

“See you later,” he asks Marcus, who nods and leaves. “Come in,” he offers his office. He leans against the front of his desk and watches Joan pace. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I haven’t heard from Sherlock in over three hours,” Joan says. “She’s not responding to texts or answering her phone.”

“Is that it,” Gregson laughs. “No offense, but Sherlock is weird,” he smiles. “The only way I could reliably get her to answer me was by sending her letters. I left message after message on her phone, she never once called me back until she called saying she was coming to the city.” He shrugs. “I never took offense. And neither should you.” He smiles. “She’s probably out trying to find Jimmy Hoffa in some subway tunnel.” That had been the subject of one of her letters- grievances about the conspiracy theories surrounding Jimmy Hoffa’s burial site, from the Meadowlands to being crushed into steel and shipped to Japan. She had thought that perhaps he was interred in a place that was then opened up to become adjacent to a subway tunnel. He had laughed out loud when he read that one. 

“You don’t understand,” Joan says, turning to face him. She seems really distressed. “We’re not supposed to be apart for more than two hours, and she’s never supposed to be unreachable.”

Gregson frowns. That's...weird. He never figured Joan for the possessive type. And he knows for a fact that Sherlock isn’t. 

“I know you two are boss and employee, too, but how is that possible? You two have got to sleep, right?”

“I live at her place.”

“Ok,” Gregson says, standing. Now it’s coming together. “I don’t know why you two couldn’t just tell me that instead of her telling me you were her valet, but fine, people are allowed to have secrets.”

“It’s not like that,” Joan says. “We’re not _ together _ together.”

“Then what is it like,” Gregson asks.

“I can’t say,” Joan says, pacing again. Gregson just watches her.

“Joan, if you want me to help you, you’re going to have to tell me what the story is.”

Joan takes a deep breath, looks at her phone, and faces him. “I’m a sober companion. I work with recovering addicts, Sherlock is my client. Her father hired me to help her stay clean. Now, the _ only _ reason I am telling you this is because I think she may have relapsed and I need your help to find her.”

Gregson takes the information in, frowning. “What makes you think she relapsed?”

“The heroin from the crime scene the other day. It was one of the drugs that landed her in rehab. Addicts aren’t allowed to even say the name of the drug they were on because even that can be enough to trigger a relapse. She was surrounded by it, seeing pictures of it. She admitted to me that the smell of cooked heroin was bringing back memories for her.” Gregson nods, growing more concerned but doing his best to hide it. It takes all his years as a cop to not show the emotion on his face. Joan’s phone pings. “It’s Sherlock,” she says, surprised. “She says she’s fine, heading back.”

“See, there you go. Nothing to worry about. I’ll keep an eye on the news to see if Hoffa has been found.” He goes to sit behind his desk. 

“Captain.” He turns to her. “You said that she never called. But did she ever text?”

“She tried to, once. Didn’t include half the letters in her sentence and used an acronym that even the internet couldn’t help me with. Why?” Joan shows him her phone screen. Gregson takes out his glasses and puts them on, looking. “She finally learned to text like a human.”

“Look at her previous texts to me.” He does. Those are more reminiscent of how Sherlock communicates via text. _ YT? _ He doesn’t know what that part means but _ ND U ASAP _ is understandable enough. 

“IMLTHO,” he questions.

“She said that it means ‘in my less than humble opinion.’” Gregson laughs quietly. “But do you see my point?”

“What point?”

“Sherlock wouldn’t just change her texting style within a week. I think she’s in danger.”

“Look. If it makes you feel better, I’ll call her.” He gives Joan her phone back. Gregson picks up his phone and hits Sherlock’s contact information, putting his phone on speaker. His heart thuds when it goes to voicemail. She’s never not answered him since she arrived in New York. “Ok, that’s weird. I’ll ping her phone,” Gregson soothes her as much as himself. Joan hugs herself. “She’s my soulmate, too,” he reminds her, putting his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find her.” Gregson makes the call. 

Joan sticks around while he’s waiting on hold with the phone company. “You said she never returned your calls,” Joan asks.

“No. She wrote in her letters that she wasn’t often available, that letters were the best way to reach her. Why?”

“She seems better about it now.”

“She’s older now. Maybe she grew out of it.” Gregson’s grateful for it; it’s way easier to reach her now. Other than tonight, he guesses. The phone company picks up. “This is Captain Gregson with the NYPD. I need you to triangulate my associate’s phone.”

Gregson starts heading for Sherlock, who’s talking with Joan. “That was very convenient, the local police showing up when they did. Your doing?” Sherlock smiles. “It was the text Donna sent from my phone, wasn’t it?”

“‘Everything’s fine. Phone was off. My mistake,’” Joan recites. “It didn’t sound like a teenager on a sugar high. Which means you didn’t write it.”

“I manipulated her into writing it for me,” Sherlock says. “I knew she’d never be able to duplicate my flair for our evolving mother tongue. I also knew-” she cuts herself off. “I hoped, rather, that once you realized I didn't send it, then you might realize I was in trouble. From there, it was a simple matter of informing Gregson so that he could track my cell, and once my location was ascertained, a quick call to the local authorities-”

“Are you seriously tryna take credit for your own rescue,” Gregson asks. Sherlock looks at him.

“It was a collaboration.” She turns to Joan. “Well done, Watson. Your deductive skills are not unworthy of further development.”

“I think that was a compliment buried in a double negative,” Joan says. “Thanks.”

Gregson smiles. “I’m glad you’re ok, Sherlock.”

“As am I, Captain.”

“Take a few days off.”

“I’ll have cold cases to keep me busy.” Gregson huffs a laugh, shaking his head. He taps her shoulder and goes. 

Sherlock knocks on the Captain’s door, and he looks up. 

“Come in.”

Sherlock does, closing the door behind her. She stands up straight. “You were busy at Jim Fowkes’ house and I didn’t get a chance to pull you aside after we spoke. But I didn’t want to let more time pass before we had a word.”

“We have something to talk about?” Gregson just wants to see her squirm. 

Sherlock sighs. “Obviously, Watson told you who she really is to me, and how we met. There are any number of reasons I didn’t tell you about my recent history, all of them specious. In the end, it was simple. I was embarrassed.” She shrugs. “You had held me in such high esteem when we worked together in Scotland Yard and when you shared your thoughts on cases with me while we corresponded, and I didn’t want to lose that. I’m sorry. You deserved to know.”

“I did know.”

Sherlock looks at him. “I beg your pardon.” Gregson taps the arm of his glasses on his desk. 

“Do you honestly think I’d let you consult for the NYPD without doin’ my homework? You told me Joan was your personal valet. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

It’s a rhetorical question. “Not at all. You are above average in intelligence and for a policeman, top tier. I’ve always thought that.” Gregson warms.

“I’ve known about your problem for a while now,” he softens his tone slightly.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“A while back, I asked you out for a drink. You didn’t take me up on it. I figured you’d come to me when you were ready. I wasn’t happy that you didn’t tell me, but your work hasn’t slipped one bit since Scotland Yard,” he smiles softly. He watches Sherlock bask in the praise. 

“Thank you.” She pauses for a second. “So you asked a recovering drug addict to a bar in hopes of her telling you about their drug problem,” she asks. Gregson thinks on that a moment. 

“I guess so.” He smiles softly. “You can always come talk to me, Sherlock. Always. We’re soulmates. But not everyone will see it my way, so let’s keep this conversation between us, hmm?” 

“Of course, Captain.”

Sherlock turns to leave, but pauses with her hand on the knob. “Thank you, Captain. For the chance.” She leaves before Gregson responds. 

“Any time, Sherlock.”


	2. Mets Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan brings Sherlock to one of her favorite things- a Mets game.

“I don’t even follow baseball,” Sherlock says as they walk to their seats. “Why even bring me?”

“Because my friend gave me two tickets,” Watson replies. “It’ll be fun, Sherlock.”

They sit down and Watson smiles broadly. Sherlock knows she really likes the Metropolitans. They’re playing the Pittsburgh Pirates today. Sherlock sits back and watches. Watson cheers and groans by turns, and Sherlock learns the chants of the stadium. Though she absolutely refuses to stand for ‘The Wave.’ 

“Come on, Sherlock, I know you can do it,” Watson says. “Let’s go Mets!”

Sherlock sighs but joins in. “Let’s go Mets,” she says. 

“Come on, 7th inning stretch,” Watson tugs her elbow, and Sherlock follows her up to where all the concession stands are. She visits the loo and comes out to Watson holding up a jersey with a wide smile. 

“Bloody Hell, Watson, really?” Watson turns the jersey around, and she blinks. “Isn’t it your last name on the back of the jersey, not your given name?”

“Normally. But there’s actually a Sherlock on the team.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope! First base coach, you didn’t see it because we’re on the third base line,” Watson chips. Sherlock sighs but extends her hands, putting the jersey on. Watson tugs her over to a stand and gets two hot dogs. They return to their seats and eat. 

A man starts to hawk candy floss, and Watson gets a bag. They share it. Sherlock hasn’t had candy floss in years, and she starts to enjoy herself. The Metropolitans actually win and they take the subway home. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to meet Gregson at his bar.

Sherlock goes to McNabb's, looking around for Gregson. She goes to the bar. "Excuse me," she says, and the man frowns. "Do you know a Captain Thomas Gregson," she asks.

"Tommy isn't here," the bartender says, and he's Irish. Dubliner, by the sound of that accent, which would explain the frown.

Sherlock nods, looking around. She sees a quiet table in the corner and goes, sitting there. What she doesn’t care about is a man watching her. He takes a long drink from his beer and stands up. 

“No way,” his friend snorts. “She won’t give you the time of day.”

“Shove it,” he snaps, walking over to her. He stands at her table and waits for her to look up from her phone. 

"Turtles always are the first to go home, they carry them on their backs," he greets.

"And you are," Sherlock asks.

“Harry,” he extends his hand. Sherlock takes it.

“Sherlock.”

“British, huh,” he asks, sitting in the seat opposite her. 

“Yes. But I’m actually waiting for someone.”

“I don’t see anyone around.”

“He’s not here yet. Which is why I’m waiting for him.”

“No law against me keeping you company,” he says.

“I guess not. I take it you’re not a police officer,” she says. She looks him over. “Family member, though. Close one.”

“Brother.”

“Mm.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Just one?”

“No thank you.”

Harry sits back in his chair, slowly dragging his eyes down Sherlock’s body. He licks his lips. Sherlock rolls her eyes.  _ Just drunk enough to be cocky. Wonderful. _ “You’re a tough one, huh?”

“What do you mean,” she picks up her phone, checking to see if the Captain had cancelled on her. Harry reaches over and pushes her phone down.

“Don’t give many men the time of day.”

“Sometimes.”

Harry grins and leans forward. Sherlock leans back, putting distance between them. “Could this be one of those times?”

“No.” Sherlock stands up and goes to leave, but Harry stands, grabs her wrist, and pulls her back, trapping her against his front. “Let go of me.”

“One drink.”

“No.”

Gregson arrives, beelining to the bar. “Hey, Sean.”

“Your English girl’s here. She went to the table in the corner.”

“Thanks,” he says, turning. He sees a man holding Sherlock tight. Sherlock is pissed. He walks over to them.

“Come on, baby, just one drink.”

“I said no.” Sherlock tries to pull away, but the man drops his hand to her ass and hauls her closer. She bares her teeth. “Let go of me.”

“I believe the lady said to stop,” Gregson says.

The man looks at him. He’s obviously drunk. “Who are you, her father?”

“Captain,” Sherlock says, voice colored with relief. She tries to pull away again.

“Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?”

“Let. Go,” Gregson says, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. He shakes him off. 

“Or what?”

Sherlock managed to pull away for a second when Gregson distracted him, and she stomps on his foot. He doubles, groaning. She pulls away from him completely, and Gregson reaches out for her. She goes to him, touching his arm in reassurance. “You ok, Sherlock?”

“Fine, Captain.”

“Come on,” Gregson says, putting his arm around her shoulders.

“Fucking slut,” the man calls after them. Gregson freezes, but Sherlock coaxes him along. 

“Nothing to worry about, Captain,” she tells him.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Nonsense, I was early for once.” Gregson offers her a chair, which she takes. He sits next to her. 

“Sean, the usual,” he orders, and the man pours him a beer. 

“Anything for you,” the bartender asks.

“Water, please,” Sherlock asks. Sean nods, pouring her a glass. He leaves the pair alone.

Gregson takes a sip of his beer. “Does that…happen a lot,” he asks.

“Nothing to worry about, Captain.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Flirting? Yes. Though not normally that aggressive. The man is drunk.” Sherlock takes a pull of her water. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Actually-“

Sean puts a shot glass in front of Sherlock. “I didn’t order this,” she says.

“That guy did,” Sean gestures with his thumb over his shoulder. Sherlock looks, and a man lifts his drink at her and winks. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Gregson grumbles. “What is it,” he asks, watching Sherlock scrutinize it. It’s multi-layered, with a dark tan at the very bottom, dark brown just above it, tan in the middle, and whipped cream on top.

“A mix of Amaretto and Irish cream liqueur, topped with whipped cream,” she says. She pushes it away from her. “Colloquially referred to as a ‘blowjob.’” Gregson chokes on the beer he inhaled, and Sherlock reaches out, rubbing between his shoulderblades. He gets himself under control. 

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, Captain.”

Gregson turns and scowls at the guy. The man backs off, lifting his hands in defeat. Gregson puts his hand under Sherlock’s seat, pulling the woman closer to him. “While I appreciate the sentiment, Captain,” she says. “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“I know, just humor me?”

Sherlock nods, letting him maneuver her. 


End file.
